Fragments
by Glowbug24
Summary: Our favorite puzzlers struggle to rebuild shattered lives and dreams. A series of one-shots in no particular order. Past Hershel/Claire.
1. Tea

_Hershel, ten years before the original trilogy._

* * *

He does not speak at the funeral.

In fact, for several weeks he barely speaks at all.

He spends most of his time in his new, empty office, staring out the window. Every inch of their tiny flat—his tiny flat, now—reminds him of her, from the saucepans in the kitchen to the calculus text on the nightstand to the puzzle pieces on the wallpaper. It takes him less than a week to purchase a battered old settee and start sleeping at Gressenheller.

The cleaning lady finds him there on the tenth morning, with bags under his eyes and a slightly wrinkled jacket for a blanket. (The new hat remains on his head; he finds he can hardly bear to take it off.) He is tempted to send her away, but he lacks the energy; besides, _she_ would have told him that a gentleman is always polite to a lady—always. So when Rosa (as her name is) shakes out the jacket, chides him gently for wrinkling it, tidies his stack of newspapers and makes him a cup of incomparable loose-leaf tea, Hershel thanks her. To his surprise, the sincerity of his gratitude goes far beyond mere politeness.

The scene repeats the next morning, and the next. Though Hershel surmises the dean has filled her in on the situation, Rosa never once mentions the explosion or asks him about Claire. Instead, she gossips about ordinary, everyday things; her children, the weather, the mischief those young rascals from paleontology have gotten into this week. She occasionally asks him for small favors as she tidies up ("Be a dear and fill the kettle, won't you?"), and so he finds himself learning, then taking over, the brewing of the tea. On the day he surprises her with a perfectly-brewed pot upon her arrival, she chuckles, straightens his tie, and tells him he's the sweetest duck of a professor she's ever met.

For the first time in weeks, Hershel Layton finds himself smiling.


	2. Cocooning

Author's note: Please note the edited description! Fear not, I'm certain there will be more Hershel/Claire angst as the mood takes me.

* * *

_Emmy, shortly after Unwound Future._

* * *

The shack was a cradle and a refuge. The walls groaned, the roof leaked, the insulation was nonexistent, but it was a place to go. The door had a lock, and god knows no one else wanted the place. I bought a cheap space heater and wore layers upon layers of sweaters. It's not hard to get sweaters. Not in Peru.

I didn't bother reading the papers for a few months; after what had happened in London I wasn't sure I wanted to know what the outside world was up to. It rather put a damper on my income; I wasn't reporting, had to rely on winter landscapes and it's damned hard to take good photos when you feel like hiding under the covers all day long. My meager rent and minuscule appetite were boons, of a sort.

I should have gone home; I know now that I could have. But you have to see, my world had just fallen apart, _again_. I didn't trust anyone. Except them, and I'd already hurt them enough… I didn't want them near me. I felt toxic.

So I hunkered down. I stayed put, in a tiny, creaking building that somehow avoided falling on my head. If it had, I doubt I'd have cared. I barely talked to anyone that whole winter. The whole world seemed dimmer, foggier. My clearest memory is of being exhausted, no matter how much I slept.

When spring came, I emerged from the shack like a deformed butterfly from her cocoon, and moved on as best I could.


	3. Fais Do Do

_Time: between chapters 3 and 4 of Last Specter (after they've chased the specter and returned to the hotel)._

* * *

His fitful slumber is shattered by a scream.

"Mum! Mum, Mummy, _Mum!"_

Hershel Layton sits up with a gasp, seizing the brim of his hat. Nearby, someone leaps out of one bed and scrambles to another. What on earth—?

"Luke, what is it?" The voice is gentle, lacking a brashness he's already come to expect. Hershel blinks. That's right—the letter, the specter, the attack on the hotel. Clark's young son, now sobbing in the bed across the room…

"Shh, it's all right." Miss Altava—no, Emmy—has claimed a spot at little Luke's side. She must have been awakened by the scream, too; the covers on her own bed are flung back haphazardly. "You're safe," she murmurs. "We're right here… you're safe."

"It was—the specter—it was coming—I want my mum!" Luke wails.

"I know, sprout. I know. Shh…" Emmy cradles the boy in her arms, stroking his hair.

" 'm _not_ a sprout," Luke protests between sniffles, but he buries his face in Emmy's shoulder.

Hershel stifles a yawn. Before he can offer assistance, Emmy looks up and meets his eyes. "Nightmare," she says softly. "I've got him, Professor. Go back to sleep."

The set of his new assistant's chin brooks no argument. Hershel simply nods. He slides down in the hotel armchair, closing his eyes. Clearly, he will need to remain in Misthallery until the specter—whatever it may be—is dealt with. Tomorrow, then, will call for a great deal of investigation, and that demands a fresh mind.

A soft crooning fills the room, and Luke's sobs start to quiet. After a moment, Hershel realizes Emmy is singing.

_ Go to sleep, my baby brother,_  
_ Go to sleep, my little hero._  
_ Mama bakes the bread, she mixes the dough,_  
_ Baby goes to sleep for to sleep he must go_…

A traditional lullaby, but one he has only heard sung in French. Where could she have learned this variation?

The song lulls him to sleep before he can ponder the question.

In the morning, Luke teases Emmy for being tired with a genuine smile on his face. She hushes him with a groan, but one corner of her mouth quirks upward as she reaches for her boots.

Hershel decides not to ask her about the lullaby.


	4. Hints

The puzzle team, Layton's office. Sometime during the prequel trilogy.

* * *

"Oh, and the third hint is also trivia." Emmy settled down on the couch next to Luke.

The "number-one apprentice," presently number-one _stumped_ apprentice, looked up from the puzzle in alarm. "But…!"

"Your choice whether you believe me, kiddo." Emmy put on her best "I know something you don't know" grin.

Luke scowled and continued to pore over the puzzle. Emmy waited. After several minutes, he reluctantly passed her a third hint coin.

"Okay…" Her smile widened.

Luke broke the seal on the card she gave him and unfolded it. "….….….….….…. EMMY!"

"I did tell you!"

Luke scooped up the puzzle and hint cards and marched over to Professor Layton, who was working at his desk. "Professor, look at these! Just look at them!"

The professor glanced at the puzzle, then read through the so-called "hints." He glanced her way, raising an eyebrow. Emmy hid a giggle behind her hand.

"Interesting. Luke, you might try…" He whispered something in the boy's ear.

Luke went back to the puzzle with renewed determination. What had the professor told him? The man himself pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and began scribbling furiously.

"Professor, what are you doing…?"

"A lady never breaks a gentleman's concentration, Emmy." Layton continued scribbling.

"Uh, right." She shifted her weight on the couch. Somehow, this didn't bode well…

"Ah. There you are, Emmy." Professor Layton handed her the sheet, which contained a puzzle… the likes of which she had never seen before in her life. Making a face, she dug in her pocket and handed him three hint coins in exchange for three cards.

_1\. The answer may not be obvious at first…_

"…"

_2\. It will be much more fun to figure this puzzle out for yourself…_

"You're joking," she muttered. Bugger it. She put the cards aside and began to study the puzzle. Ten minutes later, she sighed and cracked open the last hint.

_3\. Sorry, there are no further hints. An interesting fact about the history of this puzzle is that…_

"PROFESSOR!" Emmy complained.

Luke looked up, taking in Emmy's dismay and Layton's small smile. "Oh!" He leaped up, throwing his arms around the professor. "Thank you, Professor! Thank you thank you thank you!" Emmy balled up a hint card and chucked it at him. "Hey!" Luke yelled.

Professor Layton chuckled. "Perhaps it's time we break for some tea."


	5. Lesson

Emmy, about a dozen years before Last Specter.

I wrote this snippet as a flashback while working on Kintsukuroi, my longfic about Emmy. Unfortunately the chapter I was working on proved to have no good place for it, and I'm not sure if I'll be able to reuse it elsewhere. I like it as a little window into Emmy's childhood, though, so here it is!

* * *

"Emmeline, if you let your eyes dart all over the place like that, you'll blow your cover before you even open your mouth."

"I thought you said lying was bad, Uncle. I don't like this. I want to read with you some more."

He sighed and lifted me up on his knee. "You need to be ready when you're old enough to go on a mission, my star. That means we have to practice this. You want to help Targent, don't you?"

I nodded, and snuggled into his shoulder. "But why do I have to pretend I'm not Targent if I am?"

"Because there are all sorts of bad people out there trying to stop us. Not everyone understands the importance of what we do." He set me down. "It's safer this way. For _everyone_. Now try again."

"I'm tired."

"Stop sulking, Emmeline, and try again."


	6. Corkscrews

_Emmy, fifteen years before Azran Legacy._

_Author's note: I think a lot about what life must have been like for little!Emmy. (Unexpectedly angsty, as it turns out.) The writing style for this chapter was inspired by that of the lovely ink-splotch on Tumblr. Definitely go check them out; they're awesome._

* * *

Imagine ten-year-old Emmy Altava.

She's been wearing her hair in pigtails since reading _Pippi Longstocking_, but it's only just gotten long enough to braid. Bronev encourages the misconception that Grouse's wife has been helping out on more than an archeological level, though in truth he's not about to distract the brightest mind on his team (though he dares not acknowledge _that_, either) and has, with gritted teeth, been braiding Emmeline's hair himself. In another year he will talk her into cutting it short; more practical, he will say, since she'll be going into full training soon. But for now he deigns to tease her curls into obedience.

She's beginning to notice that he locks her in her room at night and the knowledge irks her. Uncle Leon's always going out at night; she can hear his footsteps, in and out of their new quarters. Why can't she go, too?

She misses the building they lived in before he got promoted. Here, way at the top of the Nest in every possible sense, she's beginning to feel like Rapunzel in the tower. She's big enough now to cook dinner by herself, but it's no fun when she keeps having to shove his half of it in the fridge. Sometimes he eats it when he comes back at night; sometimes it starts to smell funny and she throws it in the rubbish bin.

He's told her not to wander around alone but she sneaks out sometimes, during the day, when he hasn't locked all the doors. She starts climbing on rooftops to avoid being spotted. She plays pranks on the lower officers; moving keys, tipping coffee cups over on papers, one time pilfering a set of lock picks and, later, trying them out on her own door. She stops only when she realizes that, no matter how long she is gone, her uncle doesn't seem to notice her absence.

Then she starts walking the streets openly, throwing snowballs at the recruits who sneer as she passes. She is generally rewarded with several bruises, then delivered home in a sulking heap. Well, Uncle Leon notices _that_.

She has yet to be deemed ready for recruit training; instead, Bronev starts to train her himself. ("If you're determined to seek out trouble, Emmeline, you ought to be able to deal with it.") She's been learning martial arts since she was five but he starts in on rougher, dirtier tactics now. There are other lessons too: codes, cover stories. She memorizes the fake names and histories but stumbles when it's time to spit them out on cue. She has never been a good liar, she never will be, and they both know it.

He drills her anyway, and she tries. And if, once in a while, Emmeline practices under her breath until she can claim (with a mostly-straight face) that she's been studying Azran runes instead of reading the Agatha Christie novel she "borrowed" from Mr. Swift's office, well, she won't get shouted down unless he guesses. Until he guesses.

Fifteen years later, Emmy will look at herself in a dingy hotel room mirror and reach for the scissors. "Long hair's just not practical," she'll tell her new coworkers, and she won't know whether to remember or forget.


	7. Squire

_Author's note: I wrote a Constantine drabble. Just… because, really._

* * *

I, Constantine, have directed Sir Top Hat and The Squire Who Speaks All Tongues to the kennel of the smelly-ink man called the Storyteller. Now I, Constantine, will return faithfully to my master's side!

I have traveled far, and when I arrive at the cages of men I am most pawsore. Alas, no tankard of cool water nor a trencher of meat awaits me. Nevertheless I wag my tail at the guards, and having awed them with my chivalry, slip into the depths of the dungeon a few bread crusts fuller for my trouble.

I, Constantine, am a dexterous dog. It is no trouble to wriggle between the bars of the cage that holds my master and leap up into his lap.

"Good e'en, little squire," he says.

"Master!" I yip.

Master pats my head. "I regret that I have no dinner for so bold and loyal a companion."

Though my belly growls, I care not, but only lick my master's hand. To be in his presence is food and drink to me. Never will I desert him.


End file.
